Memories
by Sarie Venea
Summary: A little insight into how each team member deals with what they are asked to see. Oneshot, please review.


Memories

John was the last to fly through the gate, coming clear of the blue ripple just as it disappeared. He lay on his back, pain lancing through his muscles as he tried to catch his elusive breath. He heard the sounds of his team standing shakily, of the Marines offering a helping hand where needed, of the control room in an uproar. He stared at the intricate ceiling of the gateroom, his chest heaving, the bright flecks slowly fading from his vision. Suddenly the beautifully worried eyes of Elizabeth Weir came in between him and the decorated ceiling. She didn't say anything, just knelt and reached down, gently grasping his arms. He closed his eyes, willing the world to just leave him lie, there on the floor.

"I'm fine," he croaked, and she drew back, letting go. He opened his eyes, his arms splayed to the side, his face quietly sad. She looked up and shook her head at Dr. Beckett, who nodded his understanding and turned away.

"Kids can grow old, Liz. Kids. They aren't supposed to know what it is to be old." The grief in his voice was palpable, the catch in his chest not just from a bruising fall.

"I know, John." Her voice was nearly a whisper. He lifted his hands and reached for her, her grasp returning to his elbows as she gently pulled him up. He sat for a moment, his legs bent, his forehead nearly to his knees, as she held a cool hand to the back of his neck, her fingers resting softly in his hair.

Beckett was helping an injured Rodney up, the pain on the scientist's face clearly not a result of hypochondria. Teyla still sat, her arms thrown over her knees, breathing hard. Ronan was up, bent over, wide palms on his thighs, glowering at the floor. The team was uncharacteristically quiet, not so unusual from the Runner, but McKay was silent--worrisome, especially when he was hurt. And the utter agony that tore through the Colonel's eyes was indication that the devastation they found on the Wraith-slashed world was something truly horrible.

John Sheppard would file it away, placing the sight of the tiny, shriveled corpses, destroyed families, and palm-prints on broken chests into a place that would never see the light of day, only the darkness that came with each sleepless night of dreams. Along with the memory of those brought to death by his hand, whether intentional or not, went thoughts of Elizabeth's shattered body if he'd missed, of the nova that had come too close to ending a friendship like none other, of the horror at feeling his control slipping away like his DNA and wounding those closest. Memories of Afghanistan, of torture and suicide runs, of scars and aches that came only when a flash of light made him cringe. Of a second in command that didn't remember the grandmother he'd promised to see again. Of the superior that begged him to shoot. Of Rodney in the cold, wet, dark, unable to believe John would find him. Of the pain in Teyla's eyes when she felt mistrust after sacrificing an entire world so they would be safe. John would file these thoughts away, and do his best to never bring them out.

Rodney McKay would let another chink in his carefully constructed wall of ego appear when least expected, although it would seem he was working furiously to keep the feelings structured into formulas and laws that were easily transcribed into his computer. He would let the arrogance deflate ever so slightly, realizing nothing he faced could compare to the smell of death and fear that swirled like the smoke that hung over the charred buildings. It would slip under the wall ever so often to remind him just what it was they fought for, other than the next physically astonishing find. He would let the shiver of fear down his backbone take a brick from his wall just in time to come to the rescue once more, to save the day and keep the death from being in vain. Rodney would whine with just a little less conviction, he would care with just a little more emotion, all while pretending nothing had changed.

Teyla Emmagan would use it to fuel the hatred that simmered just below the surface, the pain and fury that was a gift from the former generations of ghosts who plead for justice. She would keep the bitter sound of silenced laughter and shattered voices just underneath her skin, pulling it up and strengthening her fight when faced with the enemy that could take no more. Nothing would obscure the sight before her, of a peace-filled home for her people. The tunnel she gazed through was lined with memories like this, with sounds of too many quiet worlds. With sounds of screams and cries in the night, of whimpers that ask for a mother's touch and never receive it, of laughter that could never sound whole again. Of play that was too quickly turned into survival, and work that could not guarantee a future. Teyla would not let this defeat do anything but drive her down the tunnel to the future hope she could not but cling to.

Ronan would watch the others, seeing the reactions to sights, smells, and sounds that he'd experienced for seven long years, each day knowing it would be the last for another child, another mother, or another father trying in vain to protect. He would note Sheppard's failed resolve to forget, Rodney's faked attempt at denial, Teyla's seething use of remembrance. He would take each action and give the actor credence, give them just a little more respect, a little more trust, a little more loyalty. He would keep next to the one who needed protection from himself as well as the enemy, keep on step ahead of the one who sometimes needed guidance but never leadership, and keep behind the one who merely needed someone at her back. Ronan would be still and silent, not allowing the increasing passion he felt in his world become evident to the others, though they would feel the gradual change, and indeed, welcome it without entirely understanding why.

Elizabeth stands at the railing and watches, praying that they would come home, seeing the bond that grows deeper and stronger, praying it be allowed to continue. She looks down at the man who is bent into himself, and hopes that someday he will be able to fully straighten and stand at the railing with her, the enemy gone, the visions lost and the memories merely a dream never to be asked to return to again.

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AN-Okay guys, some explanations are due here. My last SGA fic turned into a complete failure, I pretty much dispised it. There were just issues, that couldn't fix themselves. So I went back to my one-shots, focusing on the characters and a time that would give a little insight into what makes them tick. I really hope you all like it better than the last one, so please drop a note and let me know what you think. Thanks and love, Mars


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